Ruby

Stitches and Secrets

His dark red eyes fluttered open, the harsh lights on the ceiling immediately assaulting his vision. He winced, squeezing them shut for a moment before slowly opening them again, the brightness still overwhelming. As he turned his head to escape the blinding light, his gaze fell upon a familiar figure. His mother stood by the door, her back turned to him, her posture tense, lost in her thoughts or perhaps waiting for someone to enter.

The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air, and the quiet beeping of machines hummed around him. His eyes drifted around the room, taking in his surroundings. To his left, a large machine loomed next to the bed, wires trailing from it like serpents, connecting to various parts of his body. A sharp discomfort in his hand drew his attention downward—a needle was embedded in his hand, taped down, snaking up to a bag of fluid hanging above him.

He was at a hospital.

A cold, uneasy sensation settled over him as he tried to recall how he'd ended up here, but his mind felt cloudy. The sterile environment, the machines, the silence—they all felt too still, too wrong.

He looked back at his mother, still tense as she faced the door. The room felt suffocating in its silence, the soft beeps from the machines the only sound breaking through the thick air.

"Mom?" he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper, strained as if it hadn't been used for days. It scraped his throat painfully, and even that a single word left him feeling exhausted. His heart fluttered nervously as he waited for her to turn, to offer some sort of comfort or explanation.

His voice seemed to have snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned immediately, her trembling fingers dropping away from her mouth as her wide, panicked brown eyes finally met his. For a split second, her face was frozen in shock, as if she hadn't expected him to hear him speak. But then, relief washed over her face, softening the tight lines of worry.

She rushed to his bedside, her movements hurried and shaky, crouching down beside him. Her hands still trembling, wrapped around his smaller pale one with a gentle but desperate grip. "Oh, Ruby, my sweet little boy," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. She smiled, but her smile was fragile, as if it could shatter any moment, and her eyes—though relieved—still held a lingering anxiety.

Her thumb stroked the back of his hand softly, but Ruby could feel the tension in her touch. Something weighed her down, something she wasn't telling him.

Ruby's eyes traced her face more closely now. Her once carefully groomed white hair was tied up in a messy bun, loose strands falling around her face as if she hadn't had the time or energy to fix it. She looked worn and broken, but in a way that felt familiar.

She wore a dark grey dress, simple and somber, its color only adding to her air of sadness surrounding her. He wanted to say something, to ask what was going on, but his voice felt trapped in his throat.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, her voice laced with a cautious tenderness as she brushed a hand over his dark black hair. The touch was light, but her fingers lingered for a moment, as if she was trying to reassure herself that he was really there, awake and alive.

Ruby swallowed, his throat still raw. He wasn't sure how to answer. His body felt heavy, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess. A sharp, stabbing ache throbbed in his forehead, dulling the edges of his vision, but that wasn't what unsettled him the most.

It was the way his mother looked at him. Her eyes scanned his face with a mixture of fear and uncertainty, as if she was afraid of him or afraid of what he had become. Why was she acting like this? What happened?

"My head hurts," he croaked, his voice shaky. His mind was still clouded, and there was this strange emptiness where memories should have been. Faces and moments danced just out of reach, fragments of a life he couldn't quite grasp. It was as if someone had erased part of his existence, leaving him feeling incomplete.